


set me free

by orphan_account



Series: set me free [1]
Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Bare-backing, Chair Sex, M/M, NTAs 2013, Porn, Strange Courtship Rituals, Wall Sex, bradley james being bradley james, h/c, insecure!colin, irrational hatred of dickie bows, post-NTAs, sap, sappy!bradley, the sap will kill you if it doesn't transform you into sugar, weirdo!colin, weirdos in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January, 2013: Colin has just won an award, but it feels as if he’s lost the most important thing along the way. “You have to leave me,” he’s said to Bradley three times, and this night, it’s the fourth. But somehow he hasn’t anticipated Bradley James being Bradley James. (+13.5k; post-NTAs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	set me free

**Author's Note:**

> My longest fic so far. I just. Have no words, really. I’m proud of myself for writing 13,5k, even though I’m angry at the same time that it’s taking me ages to get past that word count for my Paperlegends fic, and it’s taken me all of two days for this one. I'd be obliged to anyone who could tell me just what my brain is thinking. Anyway, this is basically my post-NTA head-canon. (Since this is my first longer Brolin fic, I hope they don't appear as too OOC for you, aah.)
> 
> There’s lots of… sappy!Bradley (don’t say I didn’t warn you; I’m not taking over your dentist bill) and insecure!Colin and weirdo!Colin (who draws metaphors about people from their feet) and giving names to dickie bows and weird courtship rituals (and porn of course) and just. Them in love. 'Cos I love them. And now I’ll stop babbling before I make myself cry again because those idiots are just so fucking precious.
> 
> (Disclaimer: None of the characters or persons belong to me. I have no legal right over any of them and any work featuring real people is merely a fictional account of my own making without claiming to have, at any point, actually occurred. No offence or anything similar is intended with this. It's a fictional account and no representation of anything that might/might not have occurred.)

 

_If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was._

The warm press of Bradley’s thigh against his remains with him for the entire evening. When he holds the haphazardly prepared ‘thank you’ speech (because, really, who would’ve thought he would _actually_ win?) he feels it still, a phantom contact against his leg that makes him feel safe, because the award he’s holding hasn’t been won by himself alone, but by him and Bradley both, and Bradley is with him on stage. He is delirious with pride this night, grins his brightest, widest grins as pictures are taken, brandishing the strangely-shaped award (that really looks more like an awkward wand, which is oddly fitting; he’s portrayed Merlin, after all) with genuine surprise and a sense of happiness so strong it makes him feel light-headed. It could be the alcohol, too, because as always on these parties he feels mildly uncomfortable without Bradley around to back him up and compensates it with liquid courage. He’s being whisked from place to place, interview to interview, and four hours later, the exhaustion he’s kept at bay for so long catches up with him as he sinks into one of the bar chairs of the after party. It’s where Alex finds him.

Alex holds a brief heartfelt monologue, praises Colin with teasing but genuine affection, bright-eyed and young-faced, and Colin smiles, as always a little overwhelmed with Alex’s enthusiasm. They part ways at last. Alex claps his shoulders and, grinning, wishes him a good night, telling him to take it easy for once. Colin snorts at that, and thinks of all the roles he’s prepared and auditioned for during the last months, all the new people he’s met, half of whose names he can’t remember at all, and realises the exhaustion reaches marrow-deep, this night, and he absently lets his palm slide over his thigh. The sounds of conversation and laughter around him dims, the music quietens, and Colin is momentarily overcome as he remembers—remembers the announcement of his name, the theme music of _Merlin_ unexpectedly beginning to resound in the hall, his own grin spreading, disbelievingly… but what he remembers the strongest is the man beside him, the touch of his broad hand on Colin’s shoulder, palm curving around the shoulder blade, pulling him closer immediately in a moment of absolute, utter joy, and fingers coming to dig into the fabric of his suit on his right arm—to pat him on the chest, strong but friendly (because no one can know), and then, less friendly and more intimate, sliding down the length of his arm fondly, and the arm still around his back, all the while secure and firm and heavy, grounding him.

He remembers seeing his co-actors’ faces on the screen as they applauded him while he held his speech, in one of the few moments of peace that night when he’s managed to catch a peek at the TV. He remembers their support, but he’s been staring, slack-mouthed, at the single-minded focus of Bradley’s eyes following him. Not indulging in the kind of public expression of cheer—clapping loudly or whooping—like Alex or Eoin, no. Bradley… Bradley was much more private, jaw clenching to keep his emotions in check, and Colin had seen the little crinkle of his eyes, the distinct proud look on his face as he’d watched Colin, unrelentingly kept his eyes only on Colin, and Colin’s breath had caught at the barely concealed wetness in those blue, blue eyes, visible even on screen.

The vicious surge of longing thickens in his throat, tightens, and before Colin knows what he’s doing he’s reaching for his mobile. He closes his eyes as his hand finds it, remembering other things, other nights—nights three, four, five, forever months ago, a brightly-lit room and a strained atmosphere, tight smiles, unconvinced but determined faces, and eyes that had learnt not to find one another. _Better like this_ , he remembers saying. _Cameras are on us way too often._ A forced laugh. _Long-distance won’t work anyway. You’ll be in America, I’ll be here._ Quieter, pained: _It’d ruin us. If anyone knew._

It wasn’t the first time it’d been said. They’d been over this so many, many times before, but always Bradley’s eyes found his weeks, months after, somehow—they locked gazes, brief or long, but Bradley’s eyes found him, always found him, and Colin can remember himself struggling, because he wasn’t worth it, isn’t worth it. Yet, all that remains now, all that his skin is singing with now is the phantom touch of Bradley’s lips grazing along the tendons of his bared neck, telling Colin in a whisper, _I’m here. It’s just me, who loves you, who loves you like you are. If I’ll have to wait, I will._

And Colin had indulged, had always indulged in this, time and time again, knowing he isn’t worth it and paining Bradley with his indecision, his hesitance, his inherent need for privacy. They couldn’t. They shouldn’t. They mustn’t.

But they had.

Colin’s finger presses a button on his mobile, screen lighting up, to find three text messages. He opens the first, dreading what it would say.

\-----09:24PM. Congratulations: Your ugly dickie bow has contributed to the creation of a new, especially ugly penguin species.

He huffs out a laugh. He doesn’t even have to look whom the message is from; he knows. The second text is equally as surprising, but in a different way: It steals his breath and makes him close his eyes, because—he can’t. He shouldn’t. He mustn’t.

But he does.

In the end, he always does.

\-----23:11PM. Come find me.

\-----23:57PM. Please.

\---

Eoin seems to have expected Colin seeking him out. He traps Colin in an awkward, jovial bear-hug, loudly exclaims his fondness and pinches his cheek, smirks and calls him ‘baby bottom,’ because apparently that’s what his shaven jaw feels like. Colin indulges Eoin’s drunken antics for ten minutes before his blood becomes jittery with nerves. He pulls him aside and consciously concentrates on not sparing a thought for the utter lack of surprise on Eoin’s face when he asks him about Bradley’s lodgings. Eoin casually tells him it’s a hotel not far away from here, and from what he’s heard Bradley’s alone, has buggered off early that night, claiming he wasn’t feeling well, and wouldn’t Colin check up on his old roommate, yeah, ‘cos he himself is rather busy with a couple lovely gals at the bar? Colin gives a faked smile—what is acting for if not for these situations—itching to get out of here. There’ve been already too many people tonight, too many interviews, and Colin needs space. He needs to breathe, because he hasn’t done so at all these last months, and he needs _Bradley_ , now, right now, because if he goes another moment without breathing he’ll go insane.

Before he can leave Eoin grabs him by the wrist, and Colin raises his head just in time to catch Eoin’s _look_.

“I don’t care what you do,” Eoin says, softly, so only Colin can hear, but firmly. “But either let it be or make it work. Stop dancing around him.”

Colin swallows and nods, unknowing which of these two things he’s just agreed to.

\---

He’s already feeling paranoid when he gives the cabbie the hotel’s address, and he fidgets uncomfortably around in the backseat for the entire drive. His head is wild with thoughts: What if someone’s seen him? What if someone’s following him? What if the cabbie knows Bradley’s there and will blab to the press? What if there are cameras? There are always cameras, everywhere, and Colin begins nibbling on his lower lip, feeling uneasy. The thoughts chase one another in his head and he startles out of his reverie when the cabbie announces they’re there. He tells himself that he’s not paranoid when he leaves the cabbie with the triple amount of the fare, convincing himself it’s for no reason at all.

Colin’s skin feels stretched too thin, and he clutches with a cramped hand at his orange backpack, feeling out of place in the hotel lounge. It’s grand but cosy, has nothing of the artificial higher class style that makes him jumpy. There are rugs on the floor when he enters, small love-seats with dark wooden tables in the corners, and the lighting is low, pleasant. He tries not to think too hard about what he’s going to say to the receptionist, but the questions come anyway. Will he have to give his name? Of course he will. What will he say? How will he say he’s looking for Bradley James without actually mentioning the name Bradley James? Will she recognise him? Will she ask him what he’s doing here? Will she look at him strangely, at his suit and the threadbare backpack dangling from his fingers—it’s easy to assume, he knows, easy to think there are things for one night in the backpack, and it’s after midnight, and he’s asking for a man’s room, most likely single room, and, Christ, he’s thinking too much, isn’t he? He is.

“Good evening sir,” the receptionist says, startling him. “How can I help you?”

She’s young. Colin’s eyes briefly dart over her, assessing. She’s young and seems professional. Hair parted neatly, arranged in a ponytail; subtle make-up, not over the top. Her smile is friendly and formal. She doesn’t seem to have recognised him. He relaxes.

“I’m looking for someone,” he says rather quietly, as if afraid someone who shouldn’t overhear him would. Dear Gods. He needs to get a grip. He really is paranoid. Clearing his throat, he raises his voice a little. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Could you please tell me your name, sir?”

He stiffens, ever so slightly, but fortunately it doesn’t show. Self-deprecatingly, he thinks, _2013 NTA Best Drama Performance winner can barely keep his anxiety in check. Some winner that guy is._

He fakes a smile—he’s good at that—and says, smoothly, “I would rather give you the name of the person I’m looking for, if you don’t mind.”

She returns his smile, and he can tell it’s much more genuine than his own. There’s amusement on her face. “While I agree that this would indeed serve your aim a lot more, sir”—he takes a moment to appreciate the first sincere, non-mocking version of ‘sire’ he’s heard in five years—“I am afraid I must insist. Our business guidelines are stricter this time of the year, and I am sure you understand that I must abide by them.” A pause. “Your name, please, sir.”

Colin takes a breath through his nose, briefly closes his eyes. Thinks of a six-letter word. _Please_. And risks it, because he knows if this isn’t worth it, then nothing is.

“Colin Morgan,” he says, opens his eyes to directly look at her, unconsciously standing straighter already—steeling himself for the inevitable recognition that would bloom over her face, perhaps the query for an autograph, a quick chat. There’s a telly in the room, after all. His face might’ve been on there tonight.

She, however, merely nods in response, and says, “I see,” takes a step to the left to type something into the computer. Anxiety crowds Colin’s mind again, but he remains standing there staunchly, determined to wait through this. He’s made his way here. There’ve been worse things in his life. And even if someone were to see him now, he and Bradley have always been close. It needn’t be construed as something scandalous. They’re just mates. Good mates. They’re friendly with each other.

And they’re good actors, too. If it comes to that, they can… they can act their way around it. Like they’ve done so often.

The thought weighs heavy in Colin’s stomach, memories of all the times he’s had to keep himself in check around Bradley—distanced, aloof, friendly but not intimate. He’s chosen this. It’ll never end. There’s no point in regret.

“Sir,” the receptionist says and looks up at him, a glint in her eye. “We have found your reservation, sir.”

A pause. Then, confused, “My _reservation_?”

“Yes, sir. Colin Morgan.” She peers at the screen. “Date of birth… first of January, 1986. Current residence, London. Born… in Northern Ireland. That is you, yes?”

Colin can only nod, bewildered.

“We have a reservation for you, Mr. Morgan. For one night, tonight. You have a room on the fourth floor booked until one in the afternoon of this day.”

“But.” He frowns at her, shaking his head. “I didn’t book a room.”

“The bill has been paid already,” is all she says, seemingly unperturbed with the absence of knowledge of any reservation on his part.

“I didn’t book a room,” Colin repeats. He adds, more firmly, because it’s late and he just wants out of here, “I’m just looking for someone.”

“We have a reservation for you,” she repeats in turn, emphatically, and Colin feels that he’s missing something important, something that’s going on here, because her eyes find his, slowly, and she holds the gaze for a long, deliberate moment.

He can do nothing but stare back at her, dumbfounded.

She turns around, rummages around with the key cards hanging in rows behind a locked glass-cabinet. Colin watches her, oddly short of breath, and for the first time this night, there truly are no thoughts in his head. She returns, slides a sleek white-grey card over the desk.

“This is yours,” she says, as if it were a perfectly normal occurrence to hand out key cards to people who, Colin repeats, have not. Booked. A. Room. Never mind paid any bill for said non-booked room.

He is about to protest again, but she cuts him off. “Fourth floor, room 211. To your right when you exit the lift, just down the corridor.”

Colin nods, dumbly, as he reaches for the key card.

Accidentally, his fingers brush hers, and she looks him in the eyes. “You look rather human to me,” she says, smiling slightly. “Not like a penguin at all.”

\---

He fumbles nervously with the key card in his fingers. His eyes keep darting to his left and right, up and down the corridor, to check if there’s anyone around. The corridor is deserted, and Colin can’t hear any sounds. The light overhead is dim, still as pleasant as in the lounge. It’s not too low but neither too bright, makes him feel like he can hide without becoming invisible. He feels safer already, here, in this abandoned corridor, even though he’s still nervous as all hells.

The small device on the wall blinks green when he pulls the key card back out, and Colin grasps the door handle. He takes a deep breath, then. And goes for it.

What he sees is this: a smaller hallway illuminated dimly with a door to the right, ajar, lights out, and another door straight ahead, closed. There’s a carpet on the floor, blue, fluffy, and soft underneath his shoes. A coat hanger adorns the wall to the left, and the door falls shut quietly behind. Colin stares. He takes a step forward, drawn like a magnet to the coat hanging there. A black, sporty coat. One he knows. One he’s been wrapped up in himself, the last layer over one shirt and three jumpers, because he’s forever freezing. One he’s buried his face in, before—before.

Something in his chest twinges, and he can’t help it; it’s now, not before, and he buries his face in the fabric, pushes his nose into the familiar material—smooth; well-worn; well-kept—and opens himself up to it. It’s here, now, not before, here in this small hallway on a Wednesday night where he finds space at last after months of insanity, after months of absence—he finds _space_. Breathes in the familiar scent, and his throat stings with memories of early mornings and silly, inane conversation; morning breath and stale-tasting, lovely kisses; the rough scrape of stubble down his throat; and Bradley, Bradley everywhere, inside out all over him, his scent, which Colin can smell now, his beloved scent, so strongly, singularly him.

His heart picks up, going from heavy, nervous pulsing to rabbit-fast, frantic quaking, and he pushes himself away from the coat, and takes courage another time this night, stepping towards the closed door and pushing it open.

And there he is.

Bradley.

Lounging back in a chair before a generous window with drawn curtains. Holding a book, one-handed, eyelids half-shut and reading in the light of the standard lamp in the corner. His hair is a soft-glowing halo, golden, and Colin has a brief moment of panic because it appears as just a little darker than he remembers. He’s out of his suit top, sits there in his white shirt—still crisp, of course, because he cares about these things—and tie and slacks, and Colin doesn’t realise he lets his backpack fall to the ground when he sees Bradley’s bare feet poking out from underneath his slacks, the hem riding up to expose his ankles, looking vulnerable. Intimate.

Bradley raises his head, then, looks up from his book to Colin, who remains rooted to the spot in the door frame. With the rise of Bradley’s face his eyelids rise too, lashes giving way to allow blue to meet blue, and Colin feels his arms fall to his sides, the sky in Bradley’s eyes allowing him, finally, to breathe. He does, slow and languid and deep, open-mouthed, in wonder of this strange moment between them.

Bradley breaks it first. He closes the book and lays it aside on the nightstand, braces his elbow on the armrest, his face on his knuckles. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, and he means it. Colin knows that he does. In private, Bradley is much less a clown than he is in crowds.

“I couldn’t possibly ignore the sophisticated compliment you paid me over text,” Colin’s mouth is saying, entirely without his permission. He’s on auto-pilot. “Every woman would have swooned at that. I’m just giving credit where credit is due.”

“Are you?” Bradley asks, distantly amused. “Well, thank you. It is one of my rather ingenious come-ons, if I may say so myself.”

“You should try it out on others, you know.” Colin is still staring at Bradley, who is gazing back at him calmly, as if they had all the time in the world. His serene demeanour sets something loose within Colin, something jittery and shaky and nauseating, because—Bradley doesn’t seem fazed at all by Colin’s presence, where Colin himself is already utterly overwhelmed by him from just being around him for one, two minutes at most. Which is why he begins babbling. It’s a trait he’s developed specifically around Bradley; the other man has always brought out the livelier side of him, whether in good or bad. “If you wanna pull. Go into the city, London perhaps. Maybe you could train for LA in London, though I don’t know if the girls are different. If they like penguins. Or you could always go for origami if the penguins don’t work for you. Personally, I favour the origami style. But you shouldn’t go for girls who don’t like origami. They have crappy taste and thin skin. Will cut themselves on all the paper, and they’ll bleed over you, and then people will think you’ll have killed them, and you’ll go to prison, all because the girls didn’t like origami. So you should try to woo them, um… origami-style. Maybe you should forgo London, though. Try out Northern Ireland. They’ve got a couple support groups there, I remember. Not just for those with origami deficiency but for those that are obsessed, too.” He draws in a breath, interrupting his own waterfall of words briefly. Bradley just looks at him, doesn’t even quirk an eyebrow. It makes Colin even more nervous than before. “The obsessed ones have really thick skin. You won’t be charged for murder if you go out with them. So you should, um, you should take a ruler and measure the thickness of their skin so you know which minimum amount of skin thickness you have to look for in LA if you want to find a suitable girl. ‘Cos you’ll want to find one. I think.” And because he’s horrified he sounds assuming in any way, he hastily adds, “I know. Of course you will.”

“Georgia will be there, next month. In LA.” Bradley says it lazily, as if he were discussing the weather. “She would let me measure hers.”

“Yeah,” Colin breathes, and at last his eyes drop down to Bradley’s shoulder. He can’t look him in the face anymore. Bradley’s words are slicing in their nonchalance. “Yeah, she would.”

The silence that ensues is uncomfortable and makes Colin’s throat itch, and he shuffles a little on his feet. His gaze falls lower, to the floor. To Bradley’s feet. Bare feet. With soft skin. Vulnerable, he remembers. So vulnerable… so sensitive, the soles of a foot, when grazed. He draws the arch of Bradley’s right ankle with his eyes, and he doesn’t understand himself, doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but the sight of the skin drawn over the jutting bone, bare and exposed, makes his eyes burn, makes him choke up, and all pretence falls away: He is no longer Colin Morgan, the actor who’s just won an award. No. Here, in this small hotel room, he is just Colin, the ambitious and weird and shy and dark-humoured boy from Armagh, who aches to let his fingers trail over the soft arch of Bradley’s foot. He is just Colin, who is in love, still, his fifth year of bittersweet ache, and he longs to be _Cols_ again, weirdo Cols.

…Bradley’s Cols.

He can’t, though. He’s gambled and lost. He’s hurt someone he never should have hurt. Several times. This is what he’s chosen. He’s compromised already. This is over.

Bradley, however, has always had the ability to make Colin breathe, no matter the situation.

“Origami is brilliant,” he says, then, and Colin’s head snaps up as the other man stands up from the chair and is stepping forward. “But I think it’s past its time.”

“Is it?”

“It is. I believe there are a lot of wonderful girls out there I could catch with origami… London, LA, or Northern Ireland, doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Colin agrees, lowly. “You could.”

He looks at Bradley, and because he’s Colin and not Colin Morgan, he’s wide- and wet-eyed. People give him too much credit. He isn’t half the actor they say he is, at least not in private. Bradley stops before him, barely a foot away. His closeness is intoxicating. Colin’s fingers clench at his side. He doesn’t say a word.

There is a moment of unbearable silence, interrupted only by Bradley drawing a deep, long, breath. Then, he says, quietly, “The thing is, Colin, I don’t want to.”

Bradley’s voice is still calm, but this close, Colin can hear a slightly rougher undertone. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand. “I think it’s time for penguins now. And I happen to know that it actually works quite well.”

“Does it?” Colin laughs slightly despite the tension. “You’re an expert on penguin-related wooing, then?”

“I think I am.” Bradley nods solemnly, and takes another step closer. When he breathes, Colin feels it on his face, a warm gust of air. He quickly looks down, ashamed at the way he is so affected, ashamed at how he still is so _selfishly_ hoping for this to mean something when it shouldn’t. He can’t do anything but fall into this, helplessly, because when he looks down, there are his shoes, black and firm and dirty, touching Bradley’s bare toes, and Colin watches them, mesmerised, as they curl into the fuzzy carpet, so unselfconsciously as if this was home, as if this was the carpet they are walking on every day and not just a one-night thing. He can’t help but draw parallels, really, because he’s always been that sort of nutter who secretly enjoys creating metaphors from mundane, ordinary things. It’s a little bit like bringing magic into boring everyday life, and right now he thinks about how their shoes reflect each of them—Colin, hard and dark and closed-off, dirty and worn-out, whereas Bradley is golden like his skin, open and heartfelt, insecure and surprisingly sensitive underneath, like the soles of his feet.

“It’s brought me an award-winning one to my room, after all,” Bradley is saying, and Colin’s breath hitches—he looks up, and when he sees the insane _fondness_ in Bradley’s face he’s overwhelmed with the force of it, like a punch to his stomach. He blinks, and Bradley’s hand comes up to let his thumb swipe along Colin’s lower eyelid. It comes away wet.

“A haywire one,” is what Colin chokes out after a moment, the sight of Bradley handling his tears, his emotions, too much. It shouldn’t be. It should be Colin comforting Bradley, because it’s been him with his privacy issues and paranoia who’s pushed the other man away, time and time again, when Bradley has been nothing but so fucking _sincere_ since the start. Colin is so sick of himself, so angry at his own selfishness that he clenches his fists in anger and takes a stumbling step back, feels the wall behind him. “It won’t change,” he croaks out, after a moment. “It won’t change ‘cos I won’t change, I can’t, I can’t do this out open, and you’ll be gone and I’ll be here. You said yourself that _Merlin_ ending was emotional but necessary, and it’s the same with us, Bradley, I have to—I have to let you go,” he says, isn’t mortified anymore when the tear rolls down his cheek. “ _You_ have to let _me_ go,” he adds, pushing the words past his teeth even though he doesn’t want to, speaks much more quietly, more breath than voice, half-hoping, egoistically, that Bradley won’t hear him.

“You’re right,” Bradley says, and Colin looks up, chest seizing at the words, and he momentarily can’t read Bradley’s expression through the tears, because his face is blurred. He hears his voice, though, and it’s rougher than before, the sliver of a tremble creeping between his words. “It’s just like _Merlin_. Because like the last thing Arthur saw ever was Merlin, the last thing I see is you.”

Colin’s breath stops, and the pain in his chest intensifies, because it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Wherever I go.” Bradley shakes his head, as if he can’t believe it. “Wherever I bloody go, I see you. Five years. Five years, and it’s still the same. You said—you said this would get better. Distance would work. We’d grow apart. You said that over two years ago. When you ended it. _Again_. And look at me now, Cols,” he hisses, but it lacks any heat or aggression, is mostly resigned, hopeless but accepting. “Look at me. I’m here. Waiting. I really wanted to— _fuck_.” Bradley clenches his jaw, quickly wipes over his right eye with the back of his hand. He looks tired, exhausted. “I really planned on moving on,” he says softly, shudders with it, as if the intent behind the words is foreign to him, threatening and not benefiting as it so clearly would be. “But I can’t. I can’t because I don’t want to,” he says and catches Colin’s eyes again. Colin bites his lower lip. There’s the same gleam in Bradley’s eyes like he’d seen on-screen.

“I’m haywire, Bradley,” he repeats, helplessly, shrugging his shoulders. Then, suddenly remembering his own paranoia—because he really _is_ haywire—he laughs, humourlessly. “I paid the—on my way here, I paid the cabbie three times the fare.” He chuckles dryly, sticks his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what to do with them. “‘Cos I thought he was gonna tell. I gave him almost a hundred quid, _Jayus_ , ‘cos I’m feckin’ paranoid.” The next sound is neither a laugh nor a sob; it’s a wet thing, agonised, pitiful. “You have to—you have to see that, Bradley.”

But all his attempts at making Bradley understand seem to be wasted tonight. Perhaps it’s the temporal and spatial distance they’ve experienced over the last months, or the enforced radio silence, because instead of seeing reason Bradley cracks a smile at that.

“ _I’m gonna make him an offer he won’t refuse,_ ” he imitates in his best smoky, half-arsed Italian Marlon Brando impersonation, complete with heavy-lidded eyes and drawn eyebrows. “That what you thought, isn’t it? Gonna pay him enough to shut him up? Playing mafia?”

And the laughter Colin erupts into this time is unfitting but boisterous and carefree, because—because this is Bradley, _his_ Bradley, who’s just done a Bradley-thing. And it’s such an achingly familiar terrain that Colin can’t stop laughing, because, yeah, that’s basically what he’s been thinking, and of course Bradley knows, because he can read him like an open book, always could. When he calms, Bradley has stepped towards him, is almost as close as before. He’s wearing a crooked grin, the right corner of his mouth pulled up to reveal the white sliver of his perfect teeth. For no reason at all Colin is suddenly overcome with longing for Bradley’s wonky tooth, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s reached out to thumb Bradley’s teeth, the pad of his finger brushing over the dry lip to the softer, wetter inside.

“Oh God, sorry,” he mutters when he realises what he’s doing, cursing himself under his breath and immediately pulls his arm away. But Bradley is stronger, quicker. He catches him by the wrist and holds it there, mid-air, in his large hand. Colin’s eyes dart to Bradley’s; the heat and focus he sees in there makes a shudder slither down in circles along the knobs of his spine.

“I’m winning this round, Cols.” Another step and Bradley’s close enough for Colin to breathe in his breath. They stand toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose. “And there’s nothing you can do.”

“I think you can’t top me tonight, sorry,” Colin says, breathlessly, “what with me winning an award and all.”

And just like that, Bradley’s eyes soften. “You’re right,” he murmurs, letting Colin’s wrist go. “For once, you’re right.”

“Am I?” Colin huffs a laugh. He watches Bradley’s mouth curve into something yielding, gentle.

“Yes. They love you, as they ought to.”

“Yeah, for whatever reason.”

“You’re Colin,” Bradley says, as if that would explain everything. His voice is low but fierce and certain. “And you deserve so much more.”

“Have you been drinking again, Bradley?” Colin teases through his heart beating its way up to his throat. “Don’t be silly.”

“You are the silly one,” Bradley retorts, makes the first step and nudges Colin’s nose with his. Colin’s heart jumps. “With your dickie bow. Even if you’ve won an award, that—that thing, it’s _atrocious_.” He pulls back to peer down at said dickie bow, as if it’s done him some fatal personal offence.

Colin’s heart is fluttering like a hummingbird trapped inside his chest, and the frown on Bradley’s face—the slight crease of his brows, the way he scrunches up his nose, his lips pursed slightly in disapproval—is so bitterly, sweetly familiar, like the momentary exchange of banter, and Colin falls into it. It’s as easy as breathing. “Don’t say that in front of Dickie,” he says in horror, widening his eyes for the effect as he fingers the dickie bow. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“I think you’ve hurt him enough already by calling him Dickie.” Bradley smiles slightly at Colin’s antics before schooling his face into a stern expression. “Okay, Dicks,” he addresses Colin’s dickie bow in all seriousness, and Colin splutters a laugh at the name, because _that_ one is way worse than his. “Let’s call a truce. You’ve had Colin’s neck all night, and now I think it’s my turn. What’d you say, chap?” Colin’s chest is vibrating with laughter at the sight before him, Bradley’s head bowed to talk to his collar. “Dicks agrees with me,” Bradley says solemnly after a moment and raises his head to look up at Colin. “He says he values his life quite a lot. Even if he’s a rather unfortunate looking fellow, he doesn’t like the thought of getting in the way.”

“Getting in the way of what?” Colin asks with a slight grin. Bradley seems to prefer the more direct route of answering this time, lowering his head and nosing at Colin’s throat, and this up close, Colin can smell the mix of their colognes, deliciously tangling between them. Heat pools in his lower belly, quickly, at this first explicit touch they’ve had in months.

“Get in the way of _this_ ,” Bradley rumbles and slips his fingers into the ends of the tie and pulls until it comes apart. “He doesn’t like the thought of me ripping him off in impatience. So he’ll have to go.” He throws the ribbon of the bow tie somewhere to the floor. He barely waits another moment and undoes the first button of Colin’s shirt. Colin presses his head back against the wall to bare more of his throat in anticipation of Bradley’s lips against his skin after so long.

Bradley doesn’t disappoint; he tilts his head and presses his mouth to Colin’s neck. The feeling of Bradley’s lush lips exploring his skin, soft and hot as they mouth along the tendons of his throat, draws a sharp breath from his lips. He feels helpless, body strung as tight as a bow, and he fists the fabric of his trousers in an attempt to remain in control. Bradley seems to sense something in the way he quivers against him, pulling back to look at the conflicted expression on Colin’s face.

“Cols,” he murmurs, and his hands find Colins’, pry their tight grip apart to intertwine their fingers. “It’s okay.”

Colin shakes his head jerkily and avoids Bradley’s eyes. He’s fairly vibrating with need, all pent-up frustration and longing sitting in his muscles just waiting to snap. He’s holding himself back, the whisper of _selfish_ still sitting traitorously at the back of his mind, easily disrupting the lighter atmosphere they’ve built up in the last minutes.

“Tell me?” Bradley asks, squeezing his hands. “Tell me whatever strange pipe dream you’ve been coming up with again?”

“‘S not a pipe dream,” Colin mutters, but he’s only half as annoyed as he ought to be with how Bradley refuses to take him seriously. It’s hard to think straight, really, with Bradley’s hands in his again. It’s all he wants. It’s all he’s wanted for five years. Now he has it. For how long, though? For how long until reality will crush it again? Because this is not reality right now. This is a dark room at night; no one knows they’re here. Reality is daylight, cameras and people and opinions and press, and the clutch of Bradley’s hand in his is something he can’t, can’t do in daylight. The thought chokes him up again and he wants to tug his hands away, the touch too much, but Bradley won’t let him. Bradley, who won’t understand.

“If we do this now, then—then what’s in ten hours? In, fuck, in _eight_ hours, seven maybe, ‘cos that’s when the sun will come up, and it’ll be day again, and then we can’t hide, Bradley, there’s nowhere to hide,” Colin says in a rush, knowing if he doesn’t say the words know he probably won’t say them at all anymore this night—will indulge, instead, in the press of Bradley’s mouth on his, because he is _yearning_. It will be a mistake, and he will hurt Bradley, hurt hurt _hurt_ him, again, and if there’s one thing he’s learnt it’s that he ought to prevent pain when he knows it’s coming. “Please, try to—I can’t do this, Bradley. I’m so sorry but I can’t, not right now, not in the next years. I won’t change—”

“I don’t want you to change,” Bradley says suddenly, interrupting him. At first Colin thinks it’s a crude reference to one of his lines as Arthur, but Bradley is angry, for the first time that night, when he should’ve been angry with Colin since the very beginning. Since the first time Colin told him he couldn’t do this. And the second. The third. But he’s angry right now, and Colin quietens immediately. He’s going to accept everything Bradley’s going to throw at him, because he’s deserved this. He’s been selfish and self-serving. Would be selfish and self-serving again, tonight, and he can’t do this. He just can’t. Not when he knows how it’ll end.

“I don’t bloody want you to change,” Bradley repeats, and his grip on Colin’s fingers tightens to the point of pain. His eyes are dark and his mouth is a harsh line. “Have you listened to me at all? I told you I was trying to leave this behind, because—because yeah, it fucking sucks and it _hurts_ ,” he hisses, “because I’ll never get to touch you the way I want. I’ll never be able to just—just bloody look at you from across a room for a moment too long because people could see. But I know. I _know_. You don’t understand, and I’ve—I’ve no idea if it’s been different for you”—his eyes dart away at that, briefly, to hide the flash of pain, of insecurity—“but these last months were hell, Cols. _Hell_. Knowing I can’t have you in public hurts, yeah, but do you know what hurts even more? More than that?” And here he’s looking at Colin again, and Colin has to answer his stare with his own, because Bradley is fierce and demanding all his attention. He jostles Colin’s hands, shaking his own head. “Your absence. Not having you _at all_. And get off your high horse, will you, stop thinking you’re pitying me with this. Stop treating me like a child, stop deciding what should be my decision, stop trying to make me do what I don’t want to do. I’m—I’m a bloody adult, Colin, and I know what I want and I know who you are, and I know how it hurts, so stop—stop telling me I don’t want this. _Stop_.”

Bradley’s ire is slowly petering out with every word he says more. His voice becomes something raw and open, and Colin feels disgusted with himself because the words tear away the pain and instead there is relief, such an overwhelming sense of relief he has to gasp with it. Another tear escapes his eye.

“I’m here with you because I choose to be here with you,” Bradley murmurs at last. “And even if you’ll do it like Richard… with seventy-seven. I don’t care.” Very soft, he adds, “But I’d rather have you for the next fifty years being stupid and paying cabbies the triple fare because you’re so bloody paranoid than not having you at all.”

The laugh bubbling from Colin’s lips is entirely involuntary and wonderful; it sounds like a sob, but he manages a strained, “You’re a—a feckin’ _eejit_ ,” and wipes at his eyes, quickly, as if he could hide having cried somehow. He shoves Bradley in the chest in an attempt to express his grudge, but it’s at weak at best. He hiccups once, which makes him smile for no reason at all. Bradley, masochistic idiot that he is, answers Colin’s smile with his own, a little watery, looking ridiculous and beautiful.

“And now after you’ve emasculated me enough…” He coughs, drawing his eyebrows up. The atmosphere in the room shifts again with Bradley licking his lips, smile growing stronger, surer. Subtle, Colin has learnt, is never a look that works well on Bradley’s face. He may as well have his intention tattooed on his bare arse cheeks while wearing chaps. “…did Dicks really die a pointless death?”

“Only one way to find out,” Colin murmurs in answer, his fingers curling against Bradley’s chest, tightening into a fist before loosening. He hesitates for a moment, but takes a deep breath and finally, finally gives in to his desire—reminding himself all the while that this is what Bradley wants, too. He reaches up to card his fingers into Bradley’s hair and tilts his head a little. “But I think I've deserved a break after this night, yeah?”

Bradley makes a noise in his throat and his eyes flutter shut at the touch of Colin’s fingers scraping along his scalp. Colin’s heart lurches in his chest at the almost _blissful_ look on the other man’s face. “You award winners, you’re all so full of yourselves, aren’t you?” Bradley muses, huffing out a laugh. “I suppose I _could_ give you an award of my own…”

He opens his eyes and smirks slightly. He lets his hands trail down Colin’s sides until he stops at the waistband of his slacks. Colin swallows hard as Bradley’s gaze follows his hands, both unerringly fixed on Colin’s crotch. “I’ll do all the work,” he acquiesces with a murmur, “if you tell me what to do.”

Colin feels the warmth in his stomach intensify to heat, so intense and sudden it makes his breathing hitch. Bradley’s hand on his crotch, the feeling of his fingers fluttering over the zipper, cause Colin’s cock to take an interest. It twitches, begins filling with blood when Bradley looks up at him through his blond fringe, eyes wicked and glinting. Bradley’s request brings him to something of a stalemate, though. Bradley knows exactly that while he isn’t exactly shy in bed, it takes him a while to warm up. Deflection, then. Maybe he’d be lucky to have Bradley fall for it. “Didn’t know you’re a nervous first-timer.” He tries to laugh it off, cursing the blush on his cheeks and hoping it won’t give him away.

In response he gets Bradley’s raised eyebrows. “Didn’t know you’d gotten so _cocky_ when it comes to foreplay,” he comments. “Pun intended,” he whispers, eyes narrowing. He presses the heel of his hand briefly against Colin’s crotch, and Colin sees the satisfaction filling and darkening Bradley’s eyes as he feels Colin’s growing bulge against his hand. It makes him suck in a breath and clench his jaw, and Colin glances down, thrilled to see Bradley’s slacks tenting too.

The flush spreads from Colin’s cheeks to his neck, and he shivers as he recognises the resolve in Bradley’s eyes. Bradley is waiting, savouring the tension between them. And maybe he’s right after all, that he’s winning this round, because Colin can’t possibly wait another moment. He’s waited months for this, months for Bradley’s touch and closeness, and if Bradley hadn’t so bravely put himself out there, he doesn’t think he’d have it at all. He can’t play this game tonight, muscles coiled tight with anticipation, so he steps closer and fists his hands in Bradley’s tie and pulls him in. There’s a long breathless moment in which Colin debates a last time with himself. It is Bradley who answers for him, leaning forward and bringing his lips to Colin’s.

All the remaining anxious thoughts and worries wholly vanish in that moment from Colin’s mind. His world zeroes in on the soft lips against his own—on the tilt of a head for a better angle and the opening of a mouth, lips sliding apart to nudge another pair open, the dry outside catching against the wet inside, becoming damp and sticky with saliva. Through the low smacking sounds of their lips parting and reconnecting, Colin feels Bradley’s fingertips graze over the arch of his cheekbone, slowly. His eyes flutter open. He could count Bradley’s dark eyelashes if his face weren’t so close it’s actually slightly blurry. Bradley’s fringe tickles along Colin’s brow, brushing over the lids of his eyes as Bradley slants his face gradually to the left. He presses forward, forces Colin’s head back so it thuds softly against the wall, and the tip of his nose digs into the patch of skin between Colin’s nose and cheek. They kiss wet and slow and deep, their hot breath mingling in the space between them. Colin makes a noise in his throat as the slick flat of Bradley’s tongue traces the curve of his lower lip, and he opens his mouth a little more as Bradley moves in.

Bradley laps along the front row of his teeth in one go, as if trying to examine whether the geography of Colin’s teeth is still the same he knows. He seems satisfied with what he finds, humming low in his throat as he presses his chest against Colin’s, eliciting a groan from Colin. His lips stretch into a knowing grin that Colin feels against his mouth. “Your move now, _Col_ in,” he whispers through shaky breaths, mouthing at Colin’s chin before biting down.

Colin has almost lost track of Bradley’s teasing, mind thickening with the slow and hazy slide of Bradley’s lips over and between his. He stares, blown pupils consuming the blue of his eyes, at the impossible man in front of him—the strong bone of his jaw, square yet strangely softly rounded, the almost comically aristocratic nose, those darkened stormy eyes, and his mouth, his fucking _mouth_. Almost too wide but not quite, lips full and luscious, an angry kiss-swollen red. They make another involuntary, undignified sound escape Colin’s throat, and when they speak, the sound of that rough, low voice saying his name in _that_ way causes a shudder to run through his chest. He pushes his hips forward once, wantonly, too weak to resist the moan spilling over his lips. “Stop saying my name like that,” he groans, half-accusingly, half-approvingly. “You know I—I hate that,” he mutters, lying.

He can almost see it in Bradley’s face, the way he opens his mouth already to retort with something clichéd as ‘You love it when I say your name,’ probably. But Bradley surprises him; he merely mutters, “Do you now?” and catches one of Colin’s hand underneath his own, presses it back into the wall so he can’t move it. His other hand finds its way to the small of Colin’s back, exerting pressure to grind their lower bodies together, and Colin whines as the outline of Bradley’s erection rubs against his own. Bradley doesn’t seem to have much patience left, though, because he wrenches his hand away from Colin’s back to fumble single-handedly for Colin’s zipper and his own. After a moment of cursing under his breath he succeeds. Their trousers peel away and Bradley pushes forward, brings their cocks together, now clothed only in boxers. Colin lets his head fall back against the wall and swallows hard, can’t do much but tangle his free hand in Bradley’s hair, fisting and pulling.

The arousal runs like wildfire over his skin and he groans deeply, just low enough to catch Bradley’s sharp intake of breath. Fuck, but Bradley is hot, broad-shouldered under that white shirt, his larger hand holding Colin’s so tightly, making him feel owned, possessed, safe and cherished. His breathing grows laboured when Bradley chances a look at his face, biting on his lip, looking up at Colin through his lashes, and it fucks Colin straight to hell. Heat shoots through his veins, his brain goes murky with need, and shyness is no longer a word that is familiar. Colin’s hand catches Bradley’s wrist in a firm, secure grip, leading it away from his crotch. “Thought I was supposed to tell you what to do,” he says lowly. He lets Bradley’s hand go and tugs at his other hand, the one still clasped in Bradley’s tight grip. He waits until he has Bradley’s eyes on his again, then licks his lips. Smirks, when Bradley’s eyes flit down to his mouth. “Let me go,” he says, and Bradley does. Colin fits their bodies close together, rolls his hips once and places a soft kiss on Bradley’s lips. With Bradley staring at him, he says slowly but firmly, “Stay still and make no sound.”

With that, he sinks to his knees. He allows a small smirk to curl his lips upwards as his hands quickly and deftly tug the slacks a little further down, but still letting them sit on Bradley’s hips. Leaning in, he pushes his face against Bradley’s boxers, traces the bulge with his nose, up, up, up, before parting his lips and mouthing hotly along the material. Bradley remains relatively silent throughout it, but then his voice reaches Colin’s ears, a whisper of his name, “Colin,” making Colin’s cock twitch. He pulls back and glances up at Bradley, sees his face contorted in pleasure, trying to hold on. Colin knows he’s a tease—Bradley has accused him of it more than once—and seeing Bradley so overcome with need for Colin…

He slides his hands up Bradley’s strong thighs, and they come to rest at the waistband of his boxers. “Not a word,” he repeats in a hushed tone and unceremoniously pulls Bradley’s boxers down, the hard dick bobbing out and curving up towards Bradley’s stomach, balls heavy and full, peeking out from above the waistband. Colin swallows at the sight, saliva flooding his mouth, and looks back up at Bradley a last time. “Not a single word and not a single sound,” he warns softly, “or I’ll stop.” Holding Bradley’s eyes to the last possible moment, Colin bends down. One hand grips Bradley’s muscled thigh tightly, solid under his touch, while the other grips the base of Bradley’s dick. Wonderingly, Colin lets his palm slide up the shaft, the movement dry and rough. Bradley lets out a wounded sound when he thumbs the slit, pre-come beading there. He smears it around the head before cupping it with his palm, getting his hand wetter. Then he opens his mouth and takes Bradley inside in one go, closing his eyes at the warm weight of Bradley’s cock on his tongue, the heady, musky smell of him making arousal spike in Colin’s belly.

“Fuck,” Bradley curses above him, entirely disregarding Colin’s demands about him remaining silent. His hand finds Colin’s hair, spreading and fisting strands of it between his fingers, curling tight in an attempt to hold onto something against the white-hot pleasure. Colin groans with Bradley with his mouth, the vibration carrying through to Bradley’s body—making his hand twitch in Colin’s hair, his hips jerk forward slightly.

“Cols—Cols, fuck, you have to stop,” he groans helplessly but can’t help the way his fingers begin tugging harshly.

Colin backs off and Bradley’s dick pops out of his mouth with an obscene smacking sound. His lips are messy-wet, smeared with pre-come and saliva, and he schools his features into something coy and hot. “Since you haven’t listened to me, I don’t think I will,” he murmurs, a sly grin on his mouth. He lets his eyes drop back to Bradley’s gorgeous, gorgeous cock. It’s thick in girth and wonderful in length, the perfect combination to sink into Colin’s body, to burn its way into Colin’s hole. Swallowing hard at the thought—it’s been such a long time since he last felt it, and he can almost feel his hole spasm in anticipation—Colin shudders as his dick leaks pre-come in his boxers. He briefly touches Bradley’s hand atop his head, makes sure Bradley’s grip is tight and secure. He holds Bradley’s cock in his right hand, thumb travelling along the vein on the underside, steadying the length for his mouth.

Shooting a smouldering look at Bradley, Colin whispers, “Fuck my mouth, Bradley,” before he licks the underside of Bradley’s dick in one go with the flat side of his tongue and laps over the flushed head, pushing the tip of his tongue into the slit. Pulling back, he rasps, “Please.” He goes down on Bradley for real, relaxing his jaw to the best of his ability and letting Bradley’s cock sink deep into him until it’s touching his throat, but taking care not to gag. He massages Bradley’s shaft with his tongue and sucks so hard his cheeks are hollowing, a sharp contrast to his narrow face, his fingers clutching at Bradley’s thighs.

There is a _thump_ from above and Colin glances up, briefly, to see Bradley bracing himself against the wall with his forearm. He’s hunched over Colin, face heavily flushed, biting his lips. The white shirt is reaching just below his hips, sweat making it stick to his belly so a hint of his abs are showing. His tie is dangling from his neck, swaying with each slight thrust of his hips. It takes him a moment to take Colin’s words to heart; he’s much too gentle, less ruthless than Colin needs him to be. It’s taken Colin months to admit, stuttered into the curve of Bradley’s neck in the darkness of a room—that he likes it to _hurt_. Bradley, who is an enormous sap beneath his silly exterior, had smoothed his fingers over Colin’s hair because he couldn’t grip it and face-fuck Colin as he wanted—had smoothed his fingers out and cradled the back of Colin’s head gently until Colin had groaned in frustration.

Tonight, though, there seems to be a bone-deep sort of desperation sitting in Bradley, because he clenches his fingers in Colin’s hair _tight_ and snaps his pelvis forward, fast and ruthless. Colin finds his nose buried in the coarse curls of Bradley’s pubic hair, Bradley’s cock forced deep in his mouth until he’s moaning around it, wheezing a little for air, panting heavily through his nostrils. He loves this: The hot, thick fleshy slide of Bradley’s cock in his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue, the taste of it, bitter and salty, at the back of his throat, and the slap of Bradley’s swollen balls against his chin. He loves that he can choke himself on it until there’s nothing but the burning pull of his scalp, the ache along his jaw from being properly _used_ , and Bradley’s harsh _uh-uh-uh_ noises melting into his bloodstream, electrifying his nerves.

It’s over far too soon, Bradley tugging brutally at his hair so he yelps in pain and tears leak out of the corner of his eyes. Bradley chokes on his breathing, thumps his hand hard against the wall and Colin knows the moment when it happens—Bradley hisses, “God _damnit_ ,” and his fingers loosen, move through Colin’s hair to curve around the back of his head, no longer clutching but _holding_. Colin sobs with the way Bradley cherishes him even like this, holds his face close as he explodes into his mouth, spilling hot and thick on Colin’s tongue, into the back of his throat. Colin moans helplessly at the gift he’s given, splutters and chokes with the lack of air and Bradley filling his mouth, and what he can’t swallow runs from the corners of his mouth down to his chin.

At last, Bradley pulls back, and Colin, chest heaving, gasps for all the air he’s missed. He grips his throat—hurting so, so good—Adam’s apple bobbing against the heel of his palm. He barely registers Bradley falling to his knees before him until he cuts off his breathing again, briefly, with a soft, chaste kiss.

Through the rush of blood in his ears, Colin glances down. He leans back a little, tilts his head just enough to see his fingers still touching Bradley’s swollen dick. Making a soft noise at the back of his throat, he lets them stroke along the over-sensitised skin a last time before raising his head again. Bradley is staring at him wide-eyed, wildly, mouthing Colin’s name. He can’t seem to help himself; the sight of Colin’s raw-fucked, puffy lips smeared with his white spunk must do something to him, because he leans forward to lap over Colin’s chin and mouth, cleaning him up. The gesture is so much more intimate than what they’ve just done, and it makes Colin’s cheeks ruddy despite himself, and he feels oddly shy all of a sudden. Face flushing, he quickly hides it in the hollow of Bradley’s neck and breathes tremblingly against the sweaty skin.

“Wasn’t I supposed to tell you what to do?” Bradley asks then, voice hoarse, speaking into Colin’s ear. Colin shivers with the hot breath feathering over his lobe and shrugs his shoulders. He keeps his face in Bradley’s neck, allows it to cool off a little. He would’ve liked to continue sitting there, just allowing Bradley’s warmth to melt into his body, but Bradley has other plans.

“My turn now,” he murmurs, accompanies it with with a hot lick over Colin’s ear. He cups Colin through his boxers, still hard and aching, giving a hiss when he feels the dampness at the front, pre-come having soaked through. “Yeah, definitely my turn.”

Colin blinks when his warmth pulls away, stares up at Bradley managing to stand, legs still wonky from orgasm. His trousers fall down to his ankles and he kicks them off along with his boxers, leaves them in a heap on the floor. He gives Colin a hand and pulls him up, and even though Colin is no longer the skinny boy with thin shoulders, Bradley is still much stronger than him, making him stagger to his feet. Colin’s slacks slide down his legs, tangling. He grumbles as it takes him a moment to step out of them, and then he feels ridiculous, standing in his suit jacket, shirt, boxers and shoes before Bradley, who is watching him with hungry eyes while walking backward—but not towards the bed. Colin frowns as he glances to the bed: It’s covered in Bradley’s suitcase, clothes spilling from the rim, and several goody bags. He can see the chair peek out from behind Bradley’s broad form, though, and he catches Bradley’s eyes, licks his lips.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to share a seat again, Morgan.” He raises his head as if in challenge, then sits down on the chair, palms laying flat on his thighs, motionless. He watches Colin, almost expectantly, before he says, softly, “C’mon.”

Colin walks towards Bradley on distinctly wobbly knees, the arousal still there, making his legs weak and useless. He keeps himself upright by will and desire alone, the promise of having Bradley again in any way or shape threading thickly through his blood. He steps closer until he’s standing between Bradley’s legs and has to take a second for himself to just _look_. Bradley is staring up at him calmly, and Colin, being the object of this man’s single-minded focus, inhales sharply. His hands come to Bradley’s hair and rake through it, mussing it up a bit. He allows himself a small smile, saying, “Looks more like sex hair now.” He lets his fingers wander lower, over Bradley’s shirt, and gets caught on the buttons there. “I want to see you,” he utters, deftly undoing the buttons. It falls open, allows Bradley’s blue satin tie to rest over his broad, pale chest, nipples pink and peaked among the dusting of curled hair, and the slight crease of his stomach. Satisfied, he sits down on Bradley’s thighs, careful not to squish the half-hard dick with his butt. Moving about makes the fabric of his boxers rub against his own erection, and he gasps. He’s been waiting too long, is sensitive and raw with the need for Bradley. He hooks his arms around Bradley’s neck and pushes himself closer, burying his face into the side of Bradley’s throat to breathe open-mouthed against him. “Touch me, Bradley,” he murmurs. “Touch me, please.”

Bradley doesn’t reply, only obeys. He slides his hand over Colin’s top and underneath his suit jacket and pushes it back until it slips down Colin’s shoulders onto the floor. His movements are slow and deliberate as he unbuttons Colin’s shirt one by one. Colin tries to control his breathing as Bradley’s fingers feather over his revealed skin. His stomach jerks under his touch, and he clings to the other man, arms squeezing tighter.

“Off,” Bradley says quietly, tugs at Colin’s shirt and boxers. “Off with it.”

Colin unhooks his arms and pulls back, hastily slides off Bradley’s legs. There is no thought of seduction as he pulls his shirt off, no care for appearances as he steps out of his boxers, quickly undoes his shoes; he is consumed with his need for Bradley, skin on fire as he returns to sit in Bradley’s lap, naked. Bradley leans up to kiss him, wet, makes a noise into Colin’s mouth as their cocks rub together.

Colin’s eyes close when Bradley begins kissing along his jaw, the sensations too much and not enough. Bradley wraps a hand around his cock, jerking slow and long, and Colin looks down, catches a sight of his own reddened cockhead peaking out of the circle of Bradley’s fist and groans. He makes broken sounds in the back of his throat when Bradley’s hand opens and encompasses both of them, rubbing them together, heat against heat. It’s good, so sinfully good, but it’s not Colin wants tonight. The proximity pulls him down under a feverish ocean, and his body responds to it, but he’s still on the surface. He wants deeper down. He wants to drown in it, let it flood him entirely until he knows nothing else but Bradley.

“No.” Shaking his head, he braces himself with his hands on Bradley’s knees and lifts his hips a little, gasping when Bradley’s hands falls away and his cock slips underneath his own, past his balls, further behind to his arse. Bradley’s length slides easily between the cheeks of his arse, smearing pre-come and making it slick. Colin holds himself like that, poised tight and coiled, fingernails digging into Bradley’s skin as his muscles in his calves begin to burn with the strain, legs trembling. “I want this.”

The words unleash something within Bradley. His pupils widen and his mouth goes slack; he stares up at Colin, rapt and intense. “You want what?”

And how can Colin even begin to answer this? How can he convey that he wants Bradley, wants Bradley to hold open doors for him; wants to create stupid songs and sing them together only to laugh about it afterwards; wants to be able to accept the arm Bradley offers him sometimes when they walk; wants Bradley disgruntled at six in the morning before he’s had his coffee; wants to feel the slight swell of Bradley’s belly under his palm when he’s on break and indulging in food; wants to hear all the wonderful, insane ideas Bradley gets at two in the night with a gleeful, childish grin; wants to hear him say ‘you’re Colin’ in that ridiculous way of his, because it means nothing short of ‘you’re my whole world.’

“You,” he whispers at length, allows his eyes to find Bradley’s. “I want you.”

Bradley swallows. His hands find Colin’s hips and hold onto them. “I’ve got no condoms,” he says. “You?”

“No.” Colin sits down properly on Bradley’s thighs again, soothing his legs. He closes his eyes as something nervous begins fluttering in his chest. He shakes his head imperceptibly, and before the words can tumble out of his mouth he’s leaned forward, his forehead against Bradley’s collar bone, fingers tangling in Bradley’s shirt. “But there’s been no one else,” he confesses shakily against the tie, almost inaudible. And there hasn’t been; the last person had been Bradley, and they’d both gotten tested and agreed to do it bare.

Bradley’s hands become painfully tight on him, and Colin relishes the thought of finding the skin around his hips blue-bruised in the morning. He opens his eyes to slits just in time to see Bradley’s cock twitch in the space between them, the dusky-rose head spurting a drop of pre-come, glistening from the slit. Bradley is less composed now, his breathing irregular and too light, stirring the sweaty hair curling around Colin’s ears as he tilts his head and speaks against it. “For me neither,” he murmurs, and Colin’s heart begins throbbing almost painfully at a mad speed from the intent lying implicit in their words.

He watches Bradley’s right hand leave his hip bone to spread his fingers over his lower belly, proprietary, nails scratching over the coarse curls of his pubic hair. Colin makes a helpless little _ah_ as Bradley’s mouth closes around his lobe, breathing now much louder than before, hot-damp in the shell of Colin’s ear. Goose bumps erupt on his arms with the slick, obscene sound of Bradley tonguing him, and he fists his hand in Bradley’s shirt, crinkling the fabric beneath his cramped, sweaty grip. His eyes follow Bradley’s hand, the callused palm running over his quivering, flat stomach, splaying over the expanse of his ribs. It wanders upwards, and Colin’s right nipple pebbles sweet-taut under the rough of the thumb. There’s no mistaking Bradley’s aim, and Colin’s eyes slide shut as Bradley’s fingers cradle his lower face, heel against his chin and jaw raising Colin’s face upwards so it’s level with Bradley’s. With his fingers against the side of Colin’s face, Bradley’s thumb rubs an unspoken question into Colin’s lower lip. Colin answers in a wordless nod and opens his mouth willingly. Bradley’s index, middle and ring finger slide inside, hooking behind the row of his lower teeth.

“Get them wet,” Bradley breathes against his ear, drags his front teeth over Colin’s lobe and lets his incisors sink into the soft flesh. “Get them wet for me.”

Colin moans and purses his lips around them, begins working his tongue over the upper side of Bradley’s thick fingers, laving along their lengths and slipping in between, soaking them in his saliva. Bradley’s middle finger traps Colin’s tongue and presses it down, and the pads of all three begin stroking over its surface. Colin gags slightly when the fingers reach too deep.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Bradley says soothingly, letting his fingers retreat a little. “I’ll fill you up and you’ll be safe. I’m here.” Finally satisfied, he gently pulls his fingers out of Colin’s mouth, leaving Colin’s jaw sore and aching and his fingers shiny and slithery with spit.

Colin whispers, “Yes,” before Bradley takes his mouth in a kiss. He clutches at Bradley’s shoulder hard and gives himself into the sensuous, warm pleasure of Bradley’s lips. His spine arches a little in anticipation and his legs spread further as Bradley’s shoulder flexes, reaching between them to touch his arse, the heel of his hand touching both cheeks. Bradley slides his middle finger first down the cleft, slowly, slowly, and his other fingers follow, pushing in between Colin’s arse cheeks. Bradley teases, splays his fingers wide and pries Colin’s buttocks apart, opening him up. Colin can’t help the jerky little thrusts his hips, gasping.

Bradley simply uses this opportunity to shove both his tongue into Colin’s open mouth and the first finger into his hole, sinking inside the furled heat. Colin goes fairly weak at this, instinctively tightens around Bradley’s finger. It’s been so long since someone has touched him there last, been so long since he’s had Bradley the way he needs him. Bradley sucks on his tongue and doesn’t pause, moves his finger in and out of Colin gently, gradually opening him up. One finger becomes two becomes three, and Colin’s muscles cling to Bradley until they finally yield. Having a part of Bradley move inside him makes Colin delirious and stupid with need, and he’s got his hands fisted in Bradley’s hair, pulling frantically. The kisses become harder, feverish and messy, Bradley grunting against his mouth, and Colin hungrily laps up all the little noises he is making. Bradley’s finger are no longer gentle but ruthless, fuck in and out of him with enough force so they jar Colin’s lower body until Colin moves with it, pushes down against them.

When the heat in his belly furls too tightly for a moment, Colin wrenches his mouth from Bradley’s and fists the tie, tugging Bradley’s face close to his own until he can say against his chin, “Fuck me.”

Bradley apparently agrees with the sentiment because he nods jerkily, nostrils flaring, as he pulls his fingers out of Colin. He steadies him with one hand to the hip, and Colin raises himself as Bradley spits into his hand, fists his own cock with a groan and gets it slick before guiding it to Colin’s arse, between his cheeks, to his hole—the head catching there before opening it up, forcing the muscles apart to slide inside, burning. Colin’s mouth goes slack.

“Oh God,” he hisses, eyes sliding shut and hands flying to Bradley’s shoulders, holding on fast. “Oh God Bradley,” he groans, a tremor already shuddering through his legs as he bites his lips. His muscles slowly give way to let Bradley in, stretching, accommodating. At last Bradley fills him entirely, balls cradled against the swell of Colin's backside.

“Colin.” Bradley is breathless. His cheeks are flushed and his chest is rising fast, and he’s staring at Colin wide-eyed, mesmerised, as if this is the first time. In most ways it’s not, but in the most important one it is: This is the first time they come together like this without an imminent separation ahead of them, the first time Bradley’s words have really moved Colin away from his strict resolve not to be with him again.

“Colin,” Bradley says, as if he can’t believe that Colin really is here with him, that, just as he chooses against all reason to come back to Colin time and time again, Colin does the same. He touches his fingers to Colin’s face, reverently, cherishing, adoring. It makes Colin feel like the air is punched out of his gut viciously and he gasps as he raises himself on trembling legs. Bradley’s length slips out of his body until only the head remains inside, and Colin holds his breath when he drops his lower body again, Bradley dragging along his sensitive insides in ways that spark fires in his abdomen.

“You feel so—so bloody good,” Colin moans, can’t help his head falling forward on Bradley’s strong shoulder. He rolls his forehead against it as his hips begin moving in a breathtaking, slow rhythm. Their skin sticks together, and Bradley’s mouth finds the side of Colin’s neck, saying, “Colin, Colin, Colin,” like a drowning man obsessed with the sea.

The heat consumes Colin’s mind as the head of Bradley’s cock begins nudging his prostate repeatedly, little stabs of pleasure shooting through his belly like arrows on fire. His breathing hitches, chest tightening. He is awash in the closeness of the other man, in the physical evidence of their joining, making one out of two, and—he’s missed this, missed this so much, feels all the lost pieces of the portrait now assemble. This is no longer the echo of what he’s lost but the sound itself, Bradley inside and against him, and it swells with a feeling of rightness Colin’s tried to bury beneath the distance but can’t ignore now, because it tears through him, tears him open, leaves him raw and bleeding with the honesty he’s kept locked away inside himself.

“Missed you,” he chokes out with his nose pressed into Bradley’s neck, moving his hips relentlessly up and down Bradley’s length. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shhh.” Bradley’s hand cups the back of his neck, holding him gently against his throat, soothing, “I’m here now, I’ve got you. Shhh, I’m here, Cols. I’m here.”

Colin nods and keeps himself hidden there, slowing down a little. Bradley keeps whispering to him until the frenzied rush of remorse abates. Then, Colin pulls back, face tear-stained but eyes dry at last, kissing Bradley open-mouthed and sloppy. Bradley meets him desperately, and they eat at each other’s mouths like men starving for the right thing and finally finding it. Colin feels feverish with desire and pleasure, and Bradley cups his face in both of his hands and holds Colin there, takes his pleasure from Colin’s mouth, mad with it. Lust lurches hotly in Colin’s stomach, making him move harder on top of Bradley. With one particularly sharp thrust back down on, Bradley’s cock nudges against his prostate from a delicious angle—and he jerks at that, stills abruptly, entirely. He brings his hands to Bradley’s, digs his fingernails into the back of them, scratching.

“Oh _Jayus_ , Bradley,” he hisses into the tight space between them, speech thickening into brogue. He can’t help himself—his hips begin circling slowly, so slowly, making the head of Bradley’s cock rub against his prostate in the most insanely wonderful ways. Colin whines, feels himself spiral out of control when his own erection twitches, and he reaches down with one hand, takes himself in hand, stroking fast and hard, mindlessly. “Bradley, _there_ , Jayus, please, please, oh god, oh god,” he whispers furiously, squinting against the burn in his eyes that the hot sting of pleasure brings.

Bradley, however, has enough—in a few deft movements he’s got his strong arms hooked underneath Colin’s arse, scooping him up so Colin, yelping, has to wrap his legs and arms around Bradley to keep himself from falling. Bradley staggers to his feet, slightly unsteady as he makes his way to the nearest wall, with which Colin’s back collides, and Colin cries out. Bradley’s nostrils flare as his wild gaze pierces Colins’, and Colin can only stare back, momentarily overcome by this display of strength, and he brings his hands to Bradley’s collar and frantically tries to push the shirt away. It slides down his shoulders easily enough but gets caught around his elbows. Colin swallows thickly at the sight of the muscles in Bradley’s upper arms bunching from the effort of holding Colin up, sweat making the outlines gleam. He looks like a fucking sex god, Colin thinks deliriously, debauched and sweaty and masculine, about to devour him whole.

“You’ll never have to ask me for anything again, because I’ll give it all to you,” Bradley says hoarsely, “except for one thing.” He circles his hips slowly, and Colin’s body reacts to the desperate urge to push down against Bradley. Then, Bradley’s voice hardens, becomes unforgiving and harsh and he leans forward, holding Colin’s gaze, the blue of his eyes dark and stormy.

“Don’t ask me to leave again.” His voice is ragged, agony barely hidden underneath the thin layer of anger.

Colin’s belly curls tight, pained with remorse. “I’m sorry,” he pants, grabbing at Bradley’s shoulders. How can Bradley still talk like that, how can he still think at all?

“I’m not a child, Colin,” Bradley growls, “or does that feel like one to you?” He gives a savage thrust upwards that makes pleasure implode in Colin’s belly and his toes curl.

Colin’s head bangs back against the wall, and he hisses at the pain. “ _Jayus_ , Bradley—”

“Promise me. Promise me, for as long as you still want this,” Bradley grunts, “promise me you’ll _never_ ask me to leave again!”

“I won’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Suddenly, Bradley breaks the stare, his face twisting into a miserable grimace, eyes soft and wet. He hides his face in Colin’s neck, mouthing along the shoulder. “Don’t ever, ever do that again,” he says, desperate, voice small. “Please.”

“I won’t,” Colin whispers, tears stinging newly in his eyes at the sight before him, the proof of how his own choices had hurt the other man. “I won’t, I promise,” he says, hushed, and his arms come around Bradley’s head, holding him safe and secure. For some reason he can’t stop himself from reassuring Bradley again and again, his voice running thin and hoarse as he speaks, breathy when Bradley resumes thrusting. Colin feels Bradley’s arms underneath him begin to tremble from the strain of holding him upright, is hurting himself with the wall chafing his back sore, and still he speaks, saying “shh,” and “love,” carding his trembling fingers through the thick blond hair. They are exhausted and don’t last long after the emotional distress of the night, and when Colin, for the first time, murmurs Bradley’s own words to him—“It’s just me, Colin, and I’m here, I’m here”—Bradley goes rigid against him and makes a pained sound like a wounded animal, muffling the cry of Colin’s name in Colin’s shoulder.

\---

After another hour and a long hot shower, they both curl around one another like pieces of the same puzzle. It’s three in the morning, and the moment is the same as the one from five years ago, when they first came together like this: wrapped up in blankets they’ve never slept in before, in a darkened room that belongs to neither of them, in a city they temporarily find their home in, every now and then. It could end here, Colin thinks absently , as he lets his fingers graze in a circle around Bradley’s navel, nails catching in the light hair. It could end here, the way it ended after the first, second and third beginning. He could say something like, “It was a mistake, sorry. Won’t happen again.”

They could go back to being friends. They could go back to being strangers.

Only they can’t.

Because Bradley’s leg twitches under the heavy weight of Colin’s; because his back is warm against Colin’s chest, and because he’s breathing low and steady. Because his fingers are tight around Colin’s wrist, and because he snuffles a little in his sleep, like a dog, the same way he did five years ago. Because he is here, as he promised to be.

Because after five years, Colin finally allows himself to smile slightly into the darkness, to mumble, softly, into the curve of Bradley’s shoulder, “ _Is grá liom ort._ ”

_My love is for you._

\---

Another twenty minutes later, Bradley opens his eyes when Colin has become a dead weight behind him. He turns slightly and can see the outlines of Colin’s body in the dark, turned away from him to sprawl out like a starfish over the bed. Less of a penguin now that the terrible dickie bow is gone, but equally as endearing and lovely as always.

He knows that in four hours, things will be different. He doesn’t know where they will go from here; he is sure, though, that no one will know about them. He knows that he won’t be able to kiss Colin outside the safety of a deserted room, or touch him, or look at him for a moment too long. He knows, and it hurts. It’s reality.

It’s Colin.

Colin, who has asked him three times to leave. Who has set him free, and would do so again because he believes it to be the best for him. To whom he has returned always, to whom he will keep returning, because it is Colin.

Colin, whom he loves. Colin, who is his everything.

Bradley feels sane in the best way at this time of night, because he knows that no weight of secrecy will ever hurt as much as Colin’s absence has hurt. He is here now, and they have this.

He feels overcome with emotion for this stupid, magnificent man lying beside him, simply marvelling at the wonder of him breathing. He wants to shout it out loud, his love for Colin, wants to let the entire world know that Colin belongs to him—but he can’t, he remembers that. He can’t.

Even if it is only the two of them… it’s enough. Apart from Colin, there is nothing else Bradley needs.

He would not be Bradley James, however, if he wouldn’t find a way. So he reaches for his mobile on the nightstand, a wide grin unfurling on his face, and begins typing.

Someone out there would realise, somehow.

 

> Don't know if it was obvious by the way I kept hitting him, but was and still am, beaming with pride for NTA 'Best Actor' Colin Morgan
> 
> — Bradley James (@BradleyJames) [January 24, 2013](https://twitter.com/BradleyJames/status/294285840736210946)

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Colin’s Irish is courtesy to an Irish friend, so I hope it’s correct.  
> P.P.S. 13k! omg! \o/ *cries*  
> P.P.P.S. tell me if you like the ending? I'm strangely fond of it. /grins like a loon/


End file.
